Both fire and water rear erect to hail the march of God:
they quiver like Egyptian horses in a sudden rein,
they prance like circus lions balanced by a biting whip.
Plumb line stretched and sighting down the string
Yahweh trims the extra sea and piles it by our aisle.
The desert, steamed and pressed, is drawn to greet us.
Pharoah’s asses grumble ’round and ’round their poles
but know the road, and know the day will fade —
while every hour is noon beneath the lantern of our guide.
Monotony of normal times
(when every trusted bush was just a bush)
cycle of the sun and seasons
(shoes were slowly dropped beside our beds)
You circle back, and bring the sleep you’ve owed us
since these mitered lines cut off our rest.